Falling forward.

Oh, Fall. Last hurrah of summer, transforming green into bright, earthy swatches of color..frost on the ground, and an aire of anticipation in the air. Autumn is my favorite season, and although I'm resigned to not being a cold weather person, there's a certain comfort and grounding I take in the briskness. To me, the turning is not really a mourning of last days of warm weather - the end of barbecues, baseball, and...um, butterflies, I guess - but a gradual easing of us into another state of familiarity and comfort, warmth and closeness.

(Secretly, I love this time of year mostly because it's like a virtual hourglass of leaves, marking time to the end of arduous lawn mowing for the next few months.)

But there's more. A good friend of mine recently ruminated on reasons to love Fall. I submit my own.


10. All the good movies open in Fall. Not your typical Summer popcorn fare trumpeted with hyped release dates, obscenely paid stars and convoluted/safe storylines; I'm talking the serious Oscar contenders, that you may have to seek out that little arthouse theatre downtown to find - stories with historical sweeps of grandeur, or suburban boredom and dissatisfaction. Ones which you try to describe to your friends afterward that elicit quizzical looks and dismissive "never heard of it" responses. You know, that one film with the ending not always neatly tied up, incessantly resonating in your head on the drive home. Sneak out early on a Friday afternoon, the day one opens, and catch the last matinee show. On the way out after, give a knowing nod to the people queued up for that latest "Saw XXV" or whatever, and get a head start on awards season.

9. Football games. All kinds. even if you don't go to one, it's comfortingly familiar to see high school kids with cars (and faces) painted in hopeful victory, makeshift spririt flags hanging from windows and planted in yards. The halo glow of high school stadium lights. Marching band practices. Sundays on the couch watching a late game, with the cat sleeping on your stomach (and barely opening an eye as you throw the remote down in disgust when your team offers up a poor play).

8. Dark in, Dark out. So, Daylight Savings may have shifted, and we gain that extra hour and fall back just a little later into November now. But it's still the same Fall. Don't just go from garage to car to parking garage at work to home...Take that rare personal moment when you can walk outside into the cool darkness of the morning, inhale slow and deep, and reflect as you exhale and watch your breath disappear up over your head...attaching itself to a world vibrant and moving elsewhere, but still and calm in your driveway. And do it again as you pull into the garage at the close of the day.

7. Sleeping with windows open makes both sides of the pillow cooler. Enough said.

6. Sweatshirts and shorts together. I could wear shorts all year-round like second skin, except that enhances a dork factor in the rest of me that I have to contend with. But it's a compromised collision of mild acceptance of cooler weather, along with a holding onto summer's last hurrah, that makes this ensemble wholly necessary and acceptable. Especially here in Chicago, where Summer doesn't start until July 4th weekend, and ends with the first sighting of a Cubs fan's tears (mine included). And Spring begins again around Flag Day.

5. Smell of campfires and burning leaves. This ranks as one of my all time favorite scents. Reminds me of being a kid and sitting around fire pits, challenging each other to "What will burn the fastest?" contests. Yeah, it's accelerating global warming. But isn't the black smoke from Styrofoam cool?!?

4. Halloween parties. Couples costumes are hard - you can either go the obvious route of the latest celebrity or political scandal of that week...or be more esoteric and obscure, like each wearing a human IM log you both regularly update with Sharpies as the party progresses. ("Jen says: 'OMG. Glad we only see these neighbors once a year' ", "Nick says: 'LOL. Hope they get into the same fight again over the 'key party' suggestion he offers up every year.' "). Either way, it's a brutal fight to bragging rights for best costume prize of a ceramic pumkin mug.

3. Brunch. Fall just seems more acceptable to be decadent in your eating habits. And heavier buffet-style gorging just feels right. To a non meat-eater like myself, even sausage smells good and tempting in the thick fall air. There's a reassuring communal experience shared with strangers at an omelet station, when you're piling on six kinds of cheeses. Encouraged by the guy in a chef hat. "Feta AND cheddar sauce? Eh...why not."

2. Hot/ warm spiced wine. Mugs of cider are great for autumn wrapping of cold hands, but a friend got me hooked on a red, spiced wine served up hot...awesome for some serious fall imbibing. You can get it in a white, too, but the red just seems more seasonal...oak-y and party-like. And for you more sophisticate types, you can walk around looking detached with your wine glass in hand but still drink yourself blind like us simple folk.

1. Re-setting the DVR for new shows and getting ready for some serious couch time. And the intricate complications of emotional discourse with your spouse as to whether you'll bother getting into a new show: because it'll probably be cancelled by November sweeps anyway/ but what if it's a hit and I can't discuss with my friends at work/ yes but we watch too many shows anyway and I don't have time to get into another show/ It looks good though/ I thought you were going to read more/ but if I get suckered in and have to wait for the DVD it won't come out until the beginning of next season then I'll be two seasons behind/ can't we eliminate a reality show/ no because we've stuck with it from the beginning and besides you like Kim Kardashian/ fine/ watch it yourself, I don't care, I never stopped you, I'll just go in another room/ now I feel guilty/ you don't seem to want to spend time with me anymore anyway/ I never said that/ it's apparent we're growing further apart/ just because you know I could care less about "Dr Phil" yet you insist on recording it every day and taking up valuable space?/ I record it for you, hoping you'll take a cue and work on your emotional distancing and constant denial of my affirmations! (sniff)....

Where have all the soul men gone?

James Brown. Barry White. Luther Vandross. Wilson Pickett. Just recently, Bernie Mac.

And sadly, now Isaac Hayes.

The "Black Moses" legend of Southern R&B and "Shaft" fame...longtime in-house songwriter and arranger for Stax Records, and revered for his own Hall Of Fame career...known to most younger generations from his voice work on "South Park"...oft sampled on countless Rap hits... passed away today at age 65.

Hayes leaves 12 children, 14 grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren.

Sometimes I joke that, because of my Dad's record collection, I might have been I conceived to one of his albums.

I shall play now play Side One of "Hot Buttered Soul" in memoriam.

Somewhere today, there's an angel wearing only gold chains.

The Swell Season - Chicago Theatre, June 17, 2008

To paraphrase Lin Brehmer from WXRT, you know when you discover a band or a piece of music, maybe a film, and you feel like you're the only person who could possibly, truly get it? And you so want to share it with anyone and everyone who might show a passable interest, while at the same time letting them know at every instance that it's "yours" , and "you" knew before anyone else? Like a pride of ownership. And once the popularity builds, you feel like you just want to say it louder and more often that you discovered it "first"...but you feel like you've lost a little piece of the art to the masses? Well, here you go, general public...I give you The Swell Season. Enjoy.

Last evening, the duo of Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova played the second performance of a sold-out Chicago Theatre three-night stand. And 3,500 of "us" collectively held our breath in wondrous amazement as willing accomplices, witnessing their run through an awe-inspiring two hour set of not only music from their film, "Once," but also cover songs and impeccably performed stripped down versions of songs from Glen's main gig (and the night's backing band), The Frames.

From the moment Glen walked out onto the stark, blue and yellow light-bathed stage with his well-worn guitar, kicking off the night with a "Hey, how's it going?" before the band launched into "Trying," you just knew: this was a night for people who loved the pure art of listening to music performed by real musicians. With real instruments. Artists who genuinely felt lucky - nay, privileged - to be able to share their craft with people who loved their art as much as they did. There's a time and place for shiny, manufactured glitter pop and contrived sing-alongs (I love those songs as much as anyone), but this night wasn't it.

"Lies" was typically chest-swelling in it's majestic sweep of loud/soft dynamics, and the audience hung on every note of the warmth in Colm Mac Con Iomairem's violin. Marketa's voice rose about and weaved in and out from Glen's, sometimes sitting on top of his, sometimes providing the cushion to ease off the rough edges of his lyrical disappointments and regret. Stretching the chorus out slightly more so than the recorded version, the words hung in the air almost precariously, then reigned back in, giving added weight to a song that already sends this writer to an uncharacteristically mushy-hearted place inside. Throughout much of the night's performance, the theater got deathly quiet, and you could almost hear the audience smiling through the silence between notes. It continued with "The Moon,", and a spacey violin weaving in and out of locomotive charging acoustic power, just before the bottom dropped out in and left the audience gasping.

Both he and Mar took center spotlight for “When Your Mind’s Made Up” and completely nailed the emotional ballast of this song. Just epic in it’s grandeur and primal feel. I honestly thought at this point, we would all have witnessed the last performance of his road-weary guitar, he nearly wore another hole through it. Perfect.

Glen and Marketa traded places, he on piano, and she strapped on an acoustic for the new composition “I Have Loved You Wrong”. The words rested like a fine mist over a dense morning fog, her voice colored with a slight tinge of eerie reverb, and the drums muted by tympani toms. A very hypnotic arrangement, and at the end, Glen and Mar locked into a soaring harmony that was almost a spiritual bluegrass in it's splendor, repeating the same refrain over and over : ”Every now and then, on my mind” Definitely a showcase for Marketa, and left the audience wishing for more.

At one point, the band left Glen to center stage, sitting alone with just his guitar. No microphone or amp, just his voice to soar and bounce amongst the upper balcony reaches. Playing “Say It To Me Now” as if he was back in his street busking days, he filled the seemingly cavernous Theatre's ornate walls with clear projection and literally foot-stomping rhythm with living room intensity.

Throughout, what struck me was the genuine appreciativeness the band felt for the way the audience had chosen to spend their night. Glen thanked the crowd after each song, and he frequently segued between songs with an affably charming story or self-effacing analogies, always punctuated with the wild gesturing of hands to make a point. I felt for him, as most of my stories have no seeming end or reason...Loved his introduction for "Falling Slowly," comparing the Oscar-winning song and ensuing rise from playing 100-seat clubs to larger symphony halls, to a ball being kicked not just over the fence, but over the river and into the next town. "99% of you is proud, but the other 1% of you you just wants your ball back."

“Broken Hearted Hoover Fixer Sucker Guy” featured a star-turning appearance from a 6-year old named Ethan, plucked from You Tube ,and the crowd, to sing on-stage. He briefly forgot the words, but then backtracked and did an amazing job. Coming into the show, I wouldn't have expected a little boy to sing the word "screwed", but that and his show-bizzy bow at the end (complete with hand on tummy) made the night worth it. A meditative “What Happens When The Heart Just Stops?” had Glen comparing the conflicts hearts and minds to a “lion driving a train full speed on ice”, before he repeatedly beat the word “disappointment” into oblivion.

Glen accented “Go With Happiness” with sweeping hand gestures alternately reminiscent of a conductor with jazz hands, and a scarecrow. Holding out his arms, he just let the music sit and breathe for a moment. The lyrics, a redeeming message of letting a love go, was like a slow walk in the snow toward the dawn (“If you gotta go/ Go with happiness”)

Marketa joined him at the mic for a soaring, magical cover of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic”, the stage awash like sunlight; they kept the song going for a few more bars of vamping after turning toward the drummer and mentioning “that song was supposed to end there, but we'll just let it ride out”.

After Marketa's cradling of the audience in her hand with "The Hill" (which she mentioned had never before been performed live until then), and an angelic "If You Want Me", the full band came back for a mammoth version of The Frame's "Fitzcarraldo" (“I’m not goin down, this journey isn’t over”.) Weaving piano lines drove alongside pulsing bass lines, and the drums pounded insistently in a version that was just amazing in scale and ambition. Although more overtly rocking than much of the night's song selection, much of the earlier, performances matched the song note for note in terms of introspection and longing - and left the crowd near rapturous oblivion, wishing their journey would roll on.

The band closed the evening on a sweet note, with “Star Star” (a “lullaby to your broken soul…written in a field, drunk”) A gorgeous violin coda punctuated the night with a bit of (and it took me a moment to remember where I heard this from...like one of those melodies you've heard hundreds of times, but can't place) "Pure Imagination" from 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory' incorporated into the interlude:

"Star, star teach me how to shine, shine/ Teach me so I know what's going on in your mind"

Opening Sub Pop recording artist Daniel Martin Moore performed a solo set of sparse, plaintive guitar and introspection that captivated the crowd's attention in a way I've seen few opening acts do. His music feels like the perfect way to fill the spaciousness of a nighttime drive on an empty country road. Sweet and heartfelt warmness, delicate in it's moments but not too precious. Good stuff.

Wow. Amazing. A brilliant night, and one of the most memorable shows one could hope to witness. If you'd like to download the show (legally and artist sanctioned, I might add), go here

The Swell Season, June 17th, 2008
Chicago Theatre
SETLIST:

‘Trying”
“Lies”
“Sleeping”
“The Moon”
“When Your Mind’s Made Up”
“Seven Day Mile”
“Drown Out”
“I Have Loved You Wrong”
“Falling Slowly”
“Say It to Me Now”
"Broken-Hearted Hoover-Fixer Sucker Guy"
"What Happens When The Heart Just Stops?"
“Buzzin' Fly” (Tim Buckley cover)
“Go With Happiness”
“Into the Mystic” (Van Morrison cover)
“Once”
“The Hill
“If You Want Me”
“Fitzcarraldo”
“Star Star”

Ok, so now you know what the rest of us know. Experience the movie now if you haven't. Watch it again if you have. Go out and support real music. Be bold and adventurous. Great things will come.

Perception and Reality.

What you IMAGINE her doing at 2 a.m. :

• On the deck of a fancy yacht, cruising some magical, star-lined harbour...pastel-colored drink hoisted...smiling dreamy-eyed at her bastard model boyfriend, on her arm and holding her balance.

The probable REALITY:

• She's on her hands and knees, scraping puke from her 4-year old, out of the crevaces of the hardwood floor, with a butter knife.

What you IMAGINE she's doing, while you're stuck in traffic:

• Giving out her phone number to a co-worker, and all flirty with less than pure intentions.

The probable REALITY:

• She's annoyed, because she couldn't get size 7 bowling shoes at the alley, and has to suffer with a size smaller. And she won't shut up about it.

What you IMAGINE she's doing, when she says she'll be stuck late at work:

• Something illicit with the Peruvian cleaning guy.

The probable REALITY:

• Something even more unimaginably illicit with the American plant-watering guy.

Don't hang out with your own thoughts. They always tell the worst stories.

You're actually NOT that important if...

...you use your cell phone while you are:

1. at a urinal/ in a stall. I know, I've said it before. Although, you most likely will never have your phone stolen at the airport while doing so. Good for you, Stinkfinger. High five. Just kidding.

2. standing in line, and paying for a good or service. Nice way for you to be shorted change:

"and that's... 4 - I know you can't hear me -5 - but who cares about what's for dinner - 7 - I hope your wife is trying to race you home - 9 - and forgets her underwear - 10."

3. on a call (which YOU dialed), and then me on hold - without my honest permission - to answer another land-based phone call. Sure, you're multitasking: losing my patience and gaining a dial tone.

4. wandering the office cube farm, talking with earnest intent and gesticulating wildly, using business-isms like "It just doesn't pass the smell test" or "Let's quickly level-set, because this onion is multi-layered." Bluetooth doesn't make your call more conveniently condusive to your mobility. It just makes your jerkiness more universally accessible.

5. on camera at a televised sporting event. You are waving to viewers that don't know you. Possibly millions of people. However, based on that, you are unknowingly setting a record for receipt of virtual finger flipping from us at home. Later, you can watch the guys on Sportscenter give it to you, too. 5 times tonight.

It's okay, though. Really. I'll just ignore you. This absence (or abstinance) of ettiquette is becomeming increasingly more common place these days. And just think about the innevitable: coming soon to your transcontinental flight, hours of innane one-sided dialogue from your row-mate's phone appendage. Probably the only cause celebre' for a tarmack delay before takeoff; the flight attendants can target the most offensive offending orrators (most likely walking up and down the aisle blah-blahing with phone in hand) and corral them into the back of the plane with the beverage cart.

Ah. That's better.

Or just pass me one of them unwashed pillows. All the more better to stuff in your chatty gob.

Cincinnati Tornado of 1999. One humble perspective.

Today marks the 9th anniversary of the great Cincinnati Tornado.

Not great as in good, but "great" as in, at it's heightened intensity, the twister ranked as an F4 on the Fujita scale. Which is the second most devastating storm ranking...wind speeds of 207–260 mph, and generally just leveling most everything in its path. If I may quote the Weather Service, this size behemoth amounts to "devastating damage; Well-constructed houses leveled; structures with weak foundations blown away some distance; cars thrown and large missiles generated." That's a lot of breeze blowing around

This was just part of an incredible 54 tornadoes produced throughout the Midwest since the day before. This one touched down just west of Interstate 71, in the Blue Ash and Montgomery area at around 5 a.m., on April 9th, 1999. The tornado was nearly a quarter-mile wide...killing 4 people, and causing nearly $25million in damages, flattening homes, businesses, and livelihoods in it's wake.

I say all this, not to appear as some sort of news reporter and re-state ad nauseum a story you can Google or Wikipedia and find more detailed and specific accounts. I'm not posting as tribute, nor historical account. Just one man's hopefully respectful memory of that moment. It matters to me more so as this tornado hurled itself right through my apartment building, which is what makes it sorta more than just a "hmm and a headnod" to me when I hear about it.

I awoke to distant sirens blaring, like a kind of rising inflection that some people make when making a statement, but phrasing like a question. Still in a sleepy haze, my first irrational reaction was anger...hitting an alarm clock that wasn't going off and thinking, "Why are they testing sirens this early in the morning?"

Then I heard the wind. Almost like a blender being hit on randomly violent speeds, alternating furious and calm at the same time. Tree limbs brushing frenetically against the side of the brick, and I knew they couldn't reach that far in a normal bend.

Then it got really windy. Remarkably so.

In my haze, I grabbed the TV remote...Hmmm...must be getting ready to rain this morning. Channel 9 always had a station devoted to just an area weather radar, and my first instinct was to look. Hmmm...I don't think I've ever seen the whole radar represented as one giant red mass over the entire city before. I blinked again to focus. That doesn't seem like it should be so. Uh oh.

A huge bay window sat parallel to the bed, and my analytical prowess quickly assessed and assured me that perhaps I should move away. Instinctively, I jumped up and hid in the bath tub. Laying there, wondering if I should have maybe brought a pillow. I was on the ground level, and my mind was a blur of imagery: visions of what I would do against potential falling concrete, the window imploding and sending massive shards down the hall and around the corner right to me, just like a cartoon...all 800 of my CDs, probably ending up blowing across the Ohio River....wonderful. I was probably lying there no longer than a minute before she hit,just below the edge of the tub, grabbing onto the bottom of the shower curtain in case I needed a quick shield (although it could have been a roll of paper towels - or more appropriately the toilet paper - but I wasn't moving any farther than I could breathe - I didn't care, I was holding on to anything). In the time leading up to impact, I think I was assessing how nice it would be to have a reassuring countdown voice to impact...something soothing, and "ahh" inspiring, not like the harsh NASA robotic bleating...and how long it would take me to find the video camera...power up, load, maybe find a blank tape...wow, it'd be cool to run outside and film the tail end of it...I think everyone wonders what their last thought would be, facing impending death. Weird/ sad that I just thought of the Wizard. Or running outside to play in the rain, I guess, in the aftermath of a storm. Maybe there's some sort of beautiful, poetic analogy there. Who cares, I'm huddled like a cornered baby animal right now.

Yes, it sounded like a freight train.

And for all I know, it took all day to make it's way. It slammed up against the side of the building, every tiny speck of sand sounded like gravel being thrown under spinning tires. I was amazed, that for all the tornado's intensity, there was an eerie post silence. No wind. And the first sound I heard (other than my glorious heart and head telling me I'm fairly certain I didn't die just now) was rushing water just above me, in the ceiling. I stood up, and just waited. The building was still standing. I couldn't see sky or anything, that's good. I knew the tornado wasn't going to turn back around - like it would look over it's shoulder and see a witness, coming back to devastate whatever it missed. But I wanted to embrace the quiet for a moment, and just being alive. I think the very first thing I did, after impact, was grab all the CDs off the taller than me rack in the hallway, and move them to the center of the living area. Not sure why I envisioned that to be the best post-trauma place for valuables, and why I chose such insignificant possessions to save first...people act irrationally under duress. I go with that.

The room was still dark, but cautiously peering out the sliding patio door, I can remember pink insulation hanging from the phone lines. Just bottoms of the small cache of trees in the valley below the hill, barely visible and bark stripped like snapped yellow pencils. An ominous looking wet spot was beginning to accumulate on the ceiling. The phone still had a dial tone, and I called home. Kind of scared and excited at the same time, a mix of fear, adrenaline, and "I can't wait to tell this story", all at once. Now I was the blender. Dad picked up, and in my search for something affirmative in what seemed like a post-apocalyptic outside, I said, "Dad? I think a tornado just came through."

I'll never ever forget it. He said, "No shit?"

My thoughts exactly. Ha.

I went outside, fearful my salvation granted would be cut short by a live power line strew underfoot. The sky just beyond the trees was aglow. Someone had said the gas station on the corner was leveled, and exploded. (It didn't.) Makes sense, thought, a mangled part of the station awning is lying right in front of me. Hurled like a shot-put from hundreds of yards away. The only valuable I really owned was my Mitsubishi Eclipse, and it's a wonder my car made it without much damage; poor girl. I found a bike pressed , kiss-like, into her passenger door, and a small tree had fallen just between the driver's side and an adjacent car. Sandblasted and debris-strewn, but in one piece and right-side up. Check.

From where I could see, the building looked intact. Just a lot of debris carried however many miles, and now-nameless possessions strewn across the grass. (Later, helicopter coverage on CNN - !!! - showed incredible roof damage to the upper abodes. THAT was crazy...sitting in a hotel room two miles away later on, watching...for all intents and purposes, my HOUSE...on CNN. And near-million dollar , beautifully built, impeccable houses in Sycamore and Blue Ash just reduced to seemingly a foot tall.)

The top floor apartment just two units up and over from mine smiled a horrendously toothless gap, the roof and window gone. Leaving just an L-Shaped remnant of the window frame, and now-daybreaking sky showing it's cloud-less face. Luckily, I found out later the residents had been gone the whole week, and had yet to return.

Walking in and out among the shaken residents, I saw faces and families I'd smiled at in passing, but never talked to. All of us trying to make sense of what had happened, and no one wanting to say anything less than what might just be a calm reassurance. Some of us trekked up the hill and gathered up at the front office, somewhat questioning whether we should/were allowed to stay in our units, but mostly not even knowing where to stand. Feeling like we were just mostly in the way of nothing - help hadn't really yet arrived, but you felt like you had to constantly had to shift; like where you planted yourself still wasn't quite out of the way of where you shouldn't be. I can still remember the front office staff, still clad in fuzzy pajamas and brandishing underpowered flashlights, trying to organize their chaos of duty, while calming their own wide-eyed and scared children (and selves) too. There's a vivid recollection of standing next to an older woman, in her midst of another storm: words like "renters insurance" and "temporary shelter" bouncing off ears that couldn't comprehend. Her eyes in a mournful gaze, with no other family and wondering "But where are we going to go? What about all our things?". She looked for comfort and reassurance to chosen authority figures that (understandably so) scratched their heads and didn't yet have answers to give. (I do think the management did a great job, and they were always there to answer the phone or help out. No one wanted this to happen, and all of them were nothing but consumate professionals.)

It was truly heartbreaking, but the weird thing was - the only comfort I felt I could be to anyone was just to be in the midst of being one of the people affected. But I also didn't want to stand around and feel helpless/ sorry for myself. So...I went on in to work. (I had called in a little earlier to say I might be late ...understatement). But not before I took my car up about two miles to a car wash - whatever, I knew a free coinbox code - to get some of the cardboard and leaves out of my poor baby's air grill...it was amazing, the tornado apparently cut such a swath that no one just a little distance north seemed to have any idea or realized what had occurred maybe three hours earlier. Oh, the stares and crazy looks I got as I pulled out debris and left it on the lot. (maybe THAT'S why I got dirty looks...ha)

(My boss said, "You know, Marcus, there are certain times when you probably don't need to come in to work." But what was I gonna do? I actually, believe it or not, needed something to occupy my mind other than next steps.)

Later that day, along with some great, selfless guys from my work, I was able to get most of my stuff out of the apartment and into temporary storage. It was like a pickup convoy...any one wo had the means, was there for me, and I will always be indebted We had to wait out near the exit road for nearly an hour before the structure was deemed safe...and once granted access, we had maybe a half hour to get everything out. (Bless him, an officer came around , in an effort to keep an eye out for possible looting, and saw these big, burley, south-of-the-river Kentucky men hauling out box after box of my stuff, just in case the building might wanna just give up...it got to be kind of a gathering bond, everyone there for a cause...and he asked to see one of the more good-time-having men's ID. "Awe, you don't wanna see HIS ID....ha ha.." "Yes...yes I do." Ooookay.

So weird to think, one day everything's just okay and you're complaining about how cramped your apartment is, can't wai until your lease expires...and a few hours later, all your stuff is packed in boxes, being hauled out....and every single other person you see is doing the exact same thing, en masse. I helped a couple neighbors look through piles of belongings chucked through open windows, in an effort to make sense of the conglomerated debris.

The building ultimately was demolished a couple years later, and new housing built on the grounds. And almost right after the tornado, I ended up getting my full security deposit back....huh. Didn't expect that, but sure. Sorry, i didn't get a chance to clean up, though.

Oh yeah, later on, I locked my keys in the car. I also had two flat tires in the aftermath - one replacement was then ordered and shipped in the wrong size. The other was ordered, shipped, set aside for me to pick up, then discarded and recycled before I could get pick it up. Annnnnnnd my temporary hotel experienced a small electrical fire and I was evacuated to another hotel down the road.

But...know how you see and hear how people gawk at the scene of a crime or an accident? We've all done it. I could now say I now can empathize in knowing about the true isolation felt because I was one of the ones being looked AT. Difficult to not feel anger and disgust at those around you, who are just spectators and not players against the pain. And for that, I have nothing but the utmost caring and understanding for those who suffered irreparable loss in that storm, or ones just like that one...maybe I didn't lose a house that day, and yeah, material possessions are only things that can always be replaced. I was mostly just inconvenienced, in the end - had to pick my mail up at the post office for a couple weeks, so what. Families were without utilities for days, and those not affected offered their homes and amenities to victims of the storm. It was just me, I didn't really have anyone else to care for but myself in that time, but I really did try to look out for everyone around me at the same time. Thinking back, I don't really think I did that much except be there. I didn't pull anyone out of rubble, didn't rescue a dog. Four people sadly didn't make it, some were swept out of their beds without knowing any different. But I know that fear and immediate hopelessness, of wanting to go back or trying to snap fingers and advance the time to a less awe-inspiring dread.

But I also know that ultimately, you somehow come out a better person, more appreciative of those around you genuinely caring and wanting to help. Witnessing the kindness and compassionate of not strangers but friends in that moment...and looking back, you just feel more ALIVE.

And with one more story to tell.

10 good enough reasons why I haven't blogged.

10. The dog ate my keyboard.

9. Unable to work into most-popular Google Analytics search terms of "normal back hair quotient" and "lawn dart neighbor's goat liability" into posts.

8. Rising gas prices have inexplicably resulted in shorter, or combined, blog posts. Unfortunately, I've not been able to justify posting "2nd Most Interesting Occurrence During Today's Chair-Roll From Beth's Cubicle, Back to Mine ", or "Most Eco-Friendly Tips to Take Your Dog To Work, and Great Going Away Gifts for that Incorrigible Boss."

7. Nagging societal obligation to generously contribute Internet cache space and reserve for posts that don't contain my name as a trackback.

6. Still tweaking that RSS feed that will automatically read my postings to you in a voice not that dissimilar to pubescent teen struggling to reach those lower octaves when answering the phone and defending his masculinity and pride when he's referred to as "ma'am" by the caller on the other end.

5. Endured USA Network marathon of every episode of "My Two Dads", only to fall asleep during crucial paternity test results.

4. Overwhelming sense of self-martyrdom just for miraculously managing pesky work duties in between multiple IM messaging, My Space, Facebook, inconvenient proxy blocks on NCAA Final Four wagering, and crazy mandatory 90-day "probationary period", while constantly having to minimize my browser and carry on useless justification chats with IT department snoops.

3. Most time spent constantly hitting email "send/ receive" button, in hopes of earliest notification of landing that dream job; the one where I log in from home, and just show up somewhere on a computer screen via web-cam, greeted with acknowledging head nods by passers-by, and a cute little animated dog who pulls ticker tape out of a counter at the bottom of the monitor, tallying up my salary each moment.

Oh, and lunch would show up on my doorstep each day in a little Styrofoam container. Delivered by chocolate bunnies. Which I then eat their little ears for a snack.

2. Co-worker argument about merits of Liquid Paper vs Wite Out escalated in quite messy brawl...have been spending time covering up remnants of fisticuffs with Wite Out..I'll show him yet

1. So many words...so little knowledge of how to spell them correctly and string together in an interesting and cohesive narrative. And not enough caring about the final result.

I think we're gonna need security.

Everything needs a password these days.

Sign up for this, scan a retina for that. You can't even pay a bill online or look up an ex-girlfriend's tax assessments anymore, without having to sign up for some account. Obssessive internet spying on someone else is no longer convenient for ego reassurances at 2am these days, it's just gotten to be a downright intrusion of my privacy. I mean, how rude for a site to ask me for my own personal information, when all I wanted to do was annonymously troll through the Facebook entry of that girl at the Long John Silver's drive-thru.

And then I have to remember the passwords.

And I forget them just like Lindsey Lohan done forgot her drawers on the cover of 'New Yorker.' So you go through the lame security question list, and your password gets emailed. But those questions are way too easy. I run my mouth alot, and anyone who listens to my non-sequiter ramblings can nod attentively to me and smile without actual comprehension, and still get on the old 'puter and guess the answer to a rudimentary verification of "Your Mother's Maiden name is...", or "What was the name of the dog your dad actually buried in the backyard, but always maintained she went upstate to run free with horses at a puppy farm?"

Before you know it, your Directv bill is full of unauthorized Adult fare, like "No Humping for Old Men." Great.

Let's be more safer out there. We need good questions. More gooder questions. I propose 'Moment Of Truth' - like security questions. Questions that really matter...ones only you would know. Like:

• "What was the name of that Junior High Cheerleader you got all tingley feeling'd for?"
  
  ...who was two years older than you, that you always forgot to avert your eyes when she and her dumb quarterback boyfriend came out of Choir, because he always had his hand under her skirt and spankies, and he told you he would punch you in the fecking nose, you bowl-haircut geek - it's obvious what you're thinking about her, because you wear thin pants.

• "Who was that judgemental bitch you got all bent out of shape for?"
  
  ...and made you buy her a new mattress just because you woke up wetting her bed? Age ain't nothin' but a number, and accidents will happen. And that's what she gets for wanting to just be friends and sleep head to toe, too.

• "What were you drinking?"
  
  ...that time when you woke up, drunk off your fecking arse, and you threw up granola and grilled cheese all over that baby? Shite, that was a fecked up Sunday Morning service.

I mean, really. Be truthful. Ask yourselves the hard questions. And you'll find the answers. Maybe it's a shame on you for having those answers in the first place. But you being a socially subversive miscreant makes your little corner of the world a safer place. I think.

Last words of a Love Fool.

Oh, here it is again. This Day of Valentines, well-intentioned but love-blinded cards, and candy-coated thoughts of mushiness.

Remember being kids.... scrutinizing store-bought cutouts for just a hint of interpretation - did she purposely curve that letter in just a way to tell me she'd secretly longed for me ever since I didn't tag her at kick ball? Or did she get a hand cramp while writing? Or maybe she was just the whore of 4th grade.

So much as changed since then. You grow older, and eventually don't even take the time to write out by hand; Affirmations are even expressed by email these days, and not even in actual cards.

But email can seem cold and sterile, even perceived as dashed off and thoughtless. But it does have its place in putting a smile on our faces when we see that one special name appear in our in-box. We almost expect the "pop up"...even taking offense when it doesn't happen- standing in the midst of self-realization to find that someone didn't even take finger to key and type off a few monosyllabic words to even show they're thinking of us.

And we still read into every word written, like we did way back. Hoping our intended pays as much attention to our craft as the time we took to to even consider them worthy of our prose. So, how does one keep the romance alive, and ensure the other isn't really just quick-skimming and "yeah yeahing" through your carefully crafted e-words of devotion?

I hereby submit the following last lines to tack onto your odes to love.


"We have to stop meeting like this. The restraining order clearly specifies the parameters."

"I'd better go, the dog just got sucked into a sink hole."

"Have you ever farted and sneezed at the exact same moment?"

"So weird how your belly button smells like shorts after a triathalon."

"Was that the doorbell? Did you hear that?"

"You are pretty much the only person I really mostly ever think about."

"Please do not search for my name on You Tube."

"Hm. You must have just been thinking of me. I threw up a little in my mouth."

"Uh oh. I just saw your apparition in my grilled cheese."

"It's peanut butter jelly time! Peanut butter jelly time!"

"And sorry again about the pink eye. Forgot to wash my hands after scratching the cat."

" 'You burnt my house down, you burnt my house down.' Geez. Just once, can I get through one year without you digging that up? Let it go."

"Did you put the milk back in the fridge when it was almost empty?"

"More in love with you than ever, now that I've Googled you."

"Why is it, every time I log into your account, you haven't saved any of my emails?"

"I still carry some of your hair in my wallet."

"Please pick up your socks next time. They do not belong in the middle of the floor."

"Stop mentioning me to your therapist."

"I look forward to your complete discounting of the above."

"Gotta run, but signing my name below hereby exonerates me from what I assume are already allegations from others in your inbox."


You gotta love someone. No matter what they say.

King Of Kong.

Last week, the documentary, "The King of Kong: A Fistful Of Quarters", made it's DVD debut. Set against the backdrop of video arcade game tournaments, it's the tale of two adversaries vying for the world's record "Donkey Kong" high score.

Full of feel-good moments of heroic realizations, conspiracy theories, good guy/ bad guy personas, and allegations of sabotage, it's a completely engrossing watch. Totally engaging. I gotta tell you, if this film doesn't make you want to immediately run out and find some lonely drifter to wrap their arms around you while spending your last $5 playing video games in a stale-beer-and-feet, run-down bowling alley...well, then maybe that's a normal Saturday night for you, and you were gonna anyway. Don't let me stop you.

But for those of us who were around to play in the time of what's referred to in the film as video gaming's "golden age" (early 80's), this film is a evocation of memories in a simpler time. When games were gentler, and crude-but-cute renderings of gorillas and portly, mustachioed plumbers merely competed for the attentions of a golden haired lass. By throwing fire and barrels at each other, rather than reaching in and pulling each others' brains out and then mercilessly jacking one another for their bling, as might happen today. But whatever. I'm old, and I wasted a lot of money on this game back then, so I got all mushy hearted inside watching.

Enter Billy Mitchell, the Hot Sauce King of Florida, perfectionist and over-achiever, and dubbed "Video Game Player Of The Century" by people who know such things. Billy holds the "Donkey Kong" highest score ever verified, a record that has stood for almost 25 years. In tune with his inner feng shui, he kind of struck me as looking like a cross between Jesus and Anton LeVey Tom Cruise. (More "Last Samurai" by way of "Magnolia" swagger, than "Born on The Fourth Of July," fortunately.) With his flowing perfect hair, dark shirts and painted on black jeans, everything about him just exudes charisma and attitude. Right off, you kind of don't want to like him, with his confidence coming off a little more like arrogance. The guy just wins at life's every turn, and there's plenty of footage of his parents and hangers-on to verify. He's a "topper." Nothing you've ever done can ever stand tall to what Billy's ever accomplished. Mostly, Billy will tell you in certain terms just how great Billy is. You respect his ability and, admittedly, his showmanship. You just hate his patriotic ties.

The bane to his existence, though, appears to be Steve Wiebe, way on the other side of the country. Perpetually an "also-ran" in life, Steve's just one of those likeable guys you can't help but want some luck to fall in his favor, just for once. The way the film paints him, he just always seemed to come up short in most endeavors. He even gets laid off from his job at Boeing on the day he and his wife buy a house. With life's direction sort of at a standstill, Steve retreats to the sanctity of his garage, where he sits for hours at a time, practicing "Donkey Kong." With no real intent at first other than to occupy his mind with something productive, he formulizes the game down to scientific terms, nearly distilled to absolute Physics. He absorbs the game's motions and responses into his being, for hours on end. So much so, at one point, he breaks Billy Mitchell's world record and captures the entire session on video tape (with an amusing audio coda by his bathroom routine-challenged son caught for posterity).

But with the performance submitted to officials for verification and admittance into the record books, Steve's new found limelight suddenly is dimmed; refuted by allegations of game tampering, his tape is invalidated as proof. Suspicion abounds, many from gamers well within Billy Mitchell's circle of sycophants, as to the merits of this heretofore unknown upstart's ability. So, with his character nearly assassinated, Steve sets out to...ahem...set the record straight (sorry), and travels cross country to compete in a tournament and recreate his score-shattering performance, live. With the ultimate intent being to compete against Billy Mitchell one-on-one. But for all of Billy's bravado, he's like this elusive apparition...kind of like a modern day Jimmy Hoffa disappearing act, except for the mob part. Or the buried part. No one's really seen him. Billy communicates his directives by phone, and sends old ladies out as mules to do his bidding - courriers of video tapes as proof of his new high scores. Has anyone really seen him in person since 1982? Oh yeah, and he styles that hair. My favorite scene in the film, is a roomful of people wondering when Billy will appear at a tournament, and the next shot being a doorway peek-through of Billy running a pick through those long brown tresses of his. Couldn't care less who's waiting.

And so it builds...testimonials, positive affirmations reduced to accusations of corruption, and the quest for a final DK showdown. All leading to Steve's shot at redemption, and what later becomes a Guinness World Record score at stake. Sounds hokey, but it really works.

I really want to be like a gosh-darned real movie critic right now and have all these have bold typed, 64-pointed exclamations on my page, like "Exhilarating!" or "The Ending Will Leave You Breathless." Or "You'll Stand up and Cheer!".

Maybe I'll make up my own and say, "It's the film that shows, it takes a lot of courage in life to win, but you only need a quarter to play!"

Or not. That's cheesy. But go watch it. Now.

Excess frustration leads area man to blog.

I've tried. I really have. I'd hide away in private. Work my fingers and hands so hard, but nothing comes from it. Up and down so much, I have callouses and blisters. Sometimes I draw blood from the friction, I've rubbed them so hard. I'm frustrated, and my wrist hurts. Grandpa watched me and told me I was doing it all wrong, but I've been doing it the same way since I was a kid.

All because I can't play guitar.

I so wanted to be a rock star when I was growing up, but I was denied the parental encouragement and hand-to-muscial semblance coordination. What - I can't live strung out and groupie shuffled, a footnote in rock history by the age of 28 who failed to grow along with my fanbase by refusing to succumb to shifting musical tastes? No sense of entitlement to the VIP laminate of revolving admittance into celeb reality-show rehab? No guitar-shaped couch and chinchilla bedspread? FINE.

But I am so encouraged by my own awareness of mortality and non-coolness, that I am determined - nay, obsesstified - to one day take my musical abilities one step further, and play actual guitar better than Guitar Hero. And I suck at both.

So now, a beautiful, black Fender Strat has been shuffled in and out of it's well-worn carrying case for ten years. Picked up, plugged in, and the volume turned to eleven. The distortion pedal has been maxed out to gargantuan fuzz levels. I've piled so much reverb and delay effects onto the sound to hide my ineptness, this wall of blackness spills out an hour after I've hit a C chord. It's not music, it's just one man's ego trip.

A sculpture of wood and wire sits low on my waist, and I spend a few minutes adjusting my shoulder strap. I study each string intently, determined this time that I will play a simple song through to it's enevitable car crash conclusion. Any song. ALL the way through. Not just the intro, not wasting an hour on just the chorus. One that I don't necessarily have to like, but a good three chords and out feeling of accomplishment. Flipping through my massive bible o' Dinosaur Rock Guitar Tablatures, I dunno...maybe "Satisfaction"... some Boston song. Maybe I get some of those Roy Clark color stickers to attach to the frets a'la "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore."

I have the posturing, I have the swagger and mannerisms of a road-worn Golden God. I just can't get my fingers to match my mind. Trying to hit the frets just perfectly until that metal muted ringing of failure no longer exists. Blind Southern blues men with no shoes sold their souls to be able to play a cigar box strung with window screen wire, how friggin' hard can this be? I tell myself to only look at the neck, and not at the pickups. I hit the first chord, and then try and fingerpick my way through.

Watch the fingers.

Here it comes...bend the string up, pull off. Next chord...

Aaaaannnnnd...

wait.

Now I gotta stop and think.

How does that chord go? My long fingers and tiny hands can't make the bend. Finger two goes where? Keep the thumb straight, action is at the elbow. No way I can do this without looking down. Maybe I run the whammy bar up and down a few times. That's always fun.

I start. I stop. And I put it back down.

Oooooh, how does the riff to "Smoke On The Water" go? I can practice that. Dah - dah -dah....

Sigh. I'll never be cool.

You know what's cool? How good my guitar looks in the corner, propped up against the chair

Yeah. People ask, "Oh, you play?"

And I say, "Oh, I pick it up once in awhile."

I've BEEN ready to rock. I just can't.

Two things that I am barely upset about, but feel the need to write an impassioned blog post for.

Maneuvering a public restroom is an art. I think it was Miss Manners who said, you don't pick a stall next to an occupied one. And I'm absolutely positive it was her who emphatically emphasized, you maintain personal space between urinals. You pick the farthest one away. No peeking, Snoopy.

How can one out-think a public toilet with sensors, one that sucks the seat protector down before I can even sit...And the seat protector is always smaller than the seat itself anyway, so when it does stay, the back of the sheet slips and folds into itself, dropping down into the water. So the game continues. By that time, I don't have to go anymore.

(Now, I'm not a germ-o-phobe... hell, I'll eat dropped food off the floor or a shared public countertop. Maybe even fight the cat for dropped chicken. I draw the line at recovering dropped food from airplane tray tables. That's just disgusting.)

But I shall shake my fist to the heavens defiantly if it's the last seat protector, and it flushes before I can sit down. And I am forced to share arse sweat with the colonocally challenged moose that huffed and puffed his way through a morning constitution, before me.

And while I have the space, be good to yourself and us all. Eat a bran muffin or something.

And stop playing Tetris on your phone in the next stall. I can hear your disgusting, germy fingers clicking away. You're a jerk. I'm flipping you off right now on the other side.

Oh yeah...another thing...other shite (pun mostly somewhat intended) that gets me...

People who walk slower than I do (which consists of, oh... everyone). Especially those who walk side by side, shoulder to shoulder. I enevitably am left to wander aimlessly behind them, imaptient and jumpy, well in site of my destination. They block like a nickelback defense, and leave no room for reconaisance end- around manuevers. And they look over their shoulder and rather than get out of the way, they move sideways into my path.

I need to figure out a way to invent pants with cow-catchers. Just scoop 'em up, and knock 'em into the ficus.

Outta my way, pokeys!

What made me smile so far today.

Some days it's good to keep mental inventory of the little things.

Like when the raccoon-eyed teen at Target robotically tells me to "Have a nice day" without looking up, I can latch onto their radiation-vibey flow and have an honest chat. Let them know, "Yes...yes, I have already experienced these moments upon which you have expressed your trust in aspiration. Truly an amazing, epochal rotation of our Mother Earth's axis has bestowed it's graces, and for thine I am blessed. Thank you, O' mysterious gypsy well wisher, my hope for you be tenfold in riches."

Or just say nothing. She don't really care. She's got a bad homemade dye-job, glitter shoes, and a button with friggin' "High School Musical" or something, fer feck's sake.

But today I loved:

1. Vanilla Coke Zero.

God's nectar.

2. Videos from www.hornblasters.com/video.php.

Every successive video I watch elicits an internal review in my head: "Same." But holy hell this is a damn funny link. Huge train horns masquerading around in everyday cars, scaring the living bejebus out of unsuspecting bystanders. And they all react in that duck-down, bird diving, hiccup-scaring strike zone crouch. I laughed almost until I couldn't breath for a good, oh, few seconds. Then I grew weary of it. Just pick any video and watch, you'll get the visceral feel and start drooling on your keyboard. If ever there was anything I truly wanted from Santa, mental note for next year that I will never, ever, ask for anything again if I can just get one of these. Better than t.p.'ing the neighbors. And paintball shooting at pedestrians can suck it until 2009; now if I can just figure out how a kid's car seat will fit over the air compressor...


3a. The duck - like sound my cat Jack makes to no one in particular: "mwak...mwak."

This, I predict, will be the exact sound I will make in early stages of losing my mind. Up in here. Up in here.

3b. Green-headed, Mallard-esque ducks on the Riverwalk at lunchtime. Awe.

Until arriving back to my car to find they had shat all over the windshield. Those ducks are dead to me now.

4. Hot chocolate and an oatmeal raisin cookie on a cold gun-metal grey, rainy Chicago afternoon.

And my jeans didn't even get wet on the walk back out. Nothing my soul shaking than wet denim sticking to your skin.

5. A friend's two-year old daughter consoling me on the phone, after a particularly brutal morning meeting.

The most genuine, heartfelt verbal epiphany I could ever imagine - "It'll be awight" - almost like she plopped down on the floor beside me, gazed all-knowingly at me with her big brown eyes, and reassuringly patted me on the back. Coached or not by her Mama, I'll take it over any reward or recognition. I gotta make me one of them there two-year olds to keep for my own some day.


Be thankful. Stop walking around with the Tigger medicine-face and cheer up.

Things to cover up the fact that you're clearly not really listening.

1. "You have such enthusiasm and speak so excitedly. I'm sorry, could you please say it again?"

2. "I know you laugh when I say this, but I still think you have such a cute accent. It's so soothing. Can you just humor me and say that again?"

3. "Well...That's obviously a thoroughly researched position you've taken. You're very detail oriented. Let's step back a moment and start at the beginning so I can be absolutely sure I've captured all your points."

4. "I think that's a devestatingly effective view, but I'm not sure everyone in the room heard it. Everyone in the back okay? Maybe if you could just reiterate?"

5. "Can you spell that?" (most noticeable AFTER the fact, when you clearly weren't listening, and the word in question is something simple like "Smith." Or "idiot.")

6. "Let's give credit where credit is due. Why don't you take the lead in the presentation. This would be so spectacular, if YOU could say it."

7. "I'm sorry, I WAS listening, but... you have the most captivating eyes. " (careful how you use this one. it's good for changing the subject, but also for a donkey punch if you overthrow.)

8. "Now, I may have been caught up in fully absorbing the nuances in your presentation, so maybe you can go back and verbally bullet-point the 'easy wins.' And then perhaps capture this in a followup email? I'm visualizing some hard hitting charts and graphs, maybe put it all in a more formal presentation. Yes. That would be perfect. When do you think you could have that out to the field? I'd like to see, oh, let's say before the end of the day."

9. "Okay, I hear what you're saying. I understand your requests, but I think there are some sidebar discussions going on here, and everyone clearly is excited about the prospects of this new endeavor. For the sake of formality, we should apply some due diligence and run through it all again. One more time."

10. "Que'?"

The first to know will be the one with all the cookies.

So, as of 12:01 a.m. on January 1st, 2008 - once again, our world didn't disintegrate into a ball of technology-crashing, apocalyptic alcohol-fueled confusion and hysteria. The streets didn't flow with the blood of the non-believers. And I managed to once again traditionally justify not staying up until midnight, because technically 11pm Central (or "Fake Time" as my more East Coast family calls it) is midnight somewhere.

What if we knew time would stop the next day? What if we knew this day would infinitely be our last? How would we spend our last day on Earth? It's an age-old pondering many have spent in countless heated debates, dissecting the merits of time wasting and last moments well spent. One might spend the day expressing true feelings to our most loved ones. Maybe saying words left unsaid. Some may choose to eat an entire package of Oreos in one sitting. I've done that. So...box checked.

Now, how about if only one of us knew the world was ending? I'm not talking about some bearded, picket-sign carrying, "repent now or thyne will be lost" crazy bags-for-shoes guy who smells like cheese and sausage, and shouts all bug-eyed in your face when you're standing in line just to snag free steak-on-a-stick samples from the Super Wal Mart. No wacky tripod aliens snagging people with vending machine claws. Silly gooses, trying to outrun aliens. I'm talking about, time just stopping: the world just slowing down, like a dying winter car battery. everyone just fading into a peaceful....zzzzzzzzzz.

I'm talking, what if only YOU knew it was for certain? For the sake of exercise and my ego, let's say it was only ME who knew. What would I do, on our collective last day....hm...

Well, I can certainly tell you what I wouldn't do:

1. No 'Bless You's' anymore to sneezes. Wasted words on my part. I figure, at this point, the damage is done; if you don't have it figured out by now... and no fair fake sneezing with a cough to get one in under the wire from someone else. I'll call that shite out, and you still aren't getting one from me.
2. No waiting in lines. Anywhere. Especially when you're up there arguing with the cashier because she smooshed your bread with your Spaghetti-O's. I might even just barge into a public restroom, and knock you out of the way mid-stream. (No, I wouldn't. I'd just pee in the street. Maybe even in your pool.)
3. No driving on the streets. Streets are for those delusioned with believing they have time on their hands. I'd drive through yards and medians, 'cause I got places to go and a short time to get there. Maybe drive backwards. And no courtesy waves, either.
4. No pauses between thoughts or sentences. Gaps will be filled with either "Na Naaaa's" or "Oooooooo", just like the chorus or bridge to a song. I'm not even gonna bother thinking about my inner-censor. I'll just say, "Who cares? Your stories suck", or "You too!" when told to have a nice day (because why be a complete tool and risk a beat-down the whole day? Plus, I love irony and being an inner anarchist.)
5. No holding my farts in. Enough said.

What I WOULD do:

1. Eat in the supermarket. Undaunted. And I'll share.
2. Go head first down the biggest playground slide I can find.
3. Ride with my hand stuck outside the car window. Okay, Mom, we'll see what REALLY happens. If it DOES get cut off, oh well. What's there is there. And in eternity, doesn't it grow back into some sort of Go-Go Gadget mechanism any way? I thought I read that somewhere.
4. Make verbal honking sounds to those in my way. With scissors in my hand. While running. Outside. In the snow. With shorts on. And no jacket.
5. Tell everyone in shouting distance who matters most in my life how much of an impact they have made on me, and I have become who I am because of them, good or bad. Nothing could have been the same without them, and I wouldn't have changed the path. You know who you are. From family and friends, an ex-fiance', to that girl at Petsmart who once told me the difference between cat litters. (Because they would have no point of reference to the world ending, I'd of course run the risk of sounding all mushy-hearted and starry eyed. But better to be dead outside and emotionally spent, than to be gone and remembered as dead inside.)

Wow. This could get heavy just thinking about. Maybe I just practice now, with that last number 5 (the other "first" one, I've pretty much got down.)

Anyone with me?